Acting Means Not Being Yourself
by teh liz
Summary: [speed rent] Mark’s job turns into Roger’s job. Doink doink! Could be read MarkRoger if you so wished.


**Notes:** I did another speed story. Now it's for an official community, speedrent (with an underscore between the two words, stupid LJ. Everyone should take part, it's fun to write and fun to read. I'm not sure how the split effect works in the last scene, but I tried. The criteria to the fic was the following:  
1. Roger must be talked into taking part on a TV show.  
2. It must include Benny.  
3. It must include Roger watching himself on TV.  
5. It must make NO mention of Mimi.  
6. It must include the line, "No, I don't know what I'm doing, but who the hell does?"  
7. It must include a mention of sewing.  
This one won first, so I'm happy to present it here. :D  
**Disclaimer:** Don't own it. Don't want to. I don't own Law and Order either. I pretend to know nothing about AFTRA, their rules, although I _know_ they set a minimum for what actors must be paid. I might've been overanalyzing a little, but even if I'm totally cracked out on no sleep, I want realism.

Buzzline had been good to Mark. It was practically blasphemous to say, but as Alexi Darling had promised, the network exposure was good. Repeatedly impressed with footage he had shot and stories he had covered, NBC had hired him as a second assistant director, or something like that. He wasn't actually sure what his title was. Did he feel like it was selling out? Sometimes. It had especially when he'd been asked in the interview what film school he'd gone to, and replied that he hadn't. The look he'd gotten made him feel small. Why couldn't filming just be instinctual?

He promised himself he'd never go back to fiction after burning all his screenplays that fateful Christmas Eve, but at the end of the day, he loved his job, it was nice to have a regular paycheck, his father was speaking to him again, and he hadn't given up his documentary work; all in all, it wasn't that bad of a deal. As long as he was happy, there wasn't going to be anyone who would tell him otherwise.

When Mark was doing Buzzline, Roger would tag along if he was up and about, sometimes. He saw some of the most interesting things he'd ever seen that way: babies with six fingers on each hand, a no handed man who'd learned to play the piano with his feet (he'd been half tempted to get his number for The Well Hungarians, who were down a keyboardist), and probably the crowning glory of Mark's Buzzline days, a four car pile up in Times Square that had been caused by a new fixation of the oddity known as the Naked Cowboy. He'd joked for awhile that that was going to be his new job.

He hadn't gotten to that yet, sadly lacking the boots or hat appropriate for a cowboy. He followed Mark significantly less now, there being a huge difference between Buzzline and this highfalutin NBC job. The day that changed would change Roger's life – or at least make him the subject of well-meaning mockery for months to come.

For about the forty-fifth time, Mark adjusted the camera, and then readjusted it exactly as it had been. There was one reason he hated working in filming fiction, and it was because of all the waiting. Wait for the actors, wait for the crew, wait for the weather when you're outside, wait for that car alarm to be turned off on the next street, and did he mention wait for the actors? In documentary work there was no waiting, because all you had to film was the truth, which was everywhere.

But now they were waiting for an actor who had not shown up, and could not be reached. Mark thought he might strangle the guy with his bare hands if he ever did show up. Of course, that might cost _him_ his job and a little time up state, but it might also be worth it.

"Coffee or tea or a blowjob, Mr. Cohen?" a high falsetto said behind him.

Mark's brow furrowed and he turned slowly, preparing to ask _what_ exactly this person was on, unfortunately, he knew only too well when he saw who it was. "_Roger,_" he admonished.

Roger gave him an insufferable grin. "Couldn't resist, what're we up to here?" he asked.

"Waiting," he answered, pushing his glasses up his nose. "One of our actors hasn't showed up yet."

"Asshole," he replied, crossing his arms across his chest. "Never liked actors."

"I thought it was 'never date actresses'?" Mark questioned, a personal philosophy of Roger's that he had heard him expound upon several times.

"Same difference," he excused. "What's this show again?"

"Law and Order," Mark said. "What're you doing here anyway?"

"You said last night you were shooting in the neighborhood," he replied. "I had to see Marky at work," he then added, reaching out and ruffling the blonde's hair.

Mark swatted at Roger's hand, slightly annoyed but kind of glad his friend had shown up, unexpected as it was. "Well, thanks mom. As you can see, I'm a big boy now and doing things like tying my own shoes and running several thousands of dollars worth of camera equipment."

"Smartass."

"I only learn from the best," Mark returned, and Roger gave a smile that was somewhere between smug and proud. He pulled a cigarette out of his pocket and went to light it. Mark was about to ask him if the phrase "several thousands of dollars worth of camera equipment" meant anything to him, but was interrupted by the director, Chris. He looked very stressed and not very happy, Mark recognized the vein in the forehead. "Mark, we're going to have to stop it for today if we can't get Josh to show up," he said. "I don't suppose you want to do me a favor and kill me, do you?"

"Er, no, sorry," Mark apologized, although not sure why. "Are we sure there aren't any other phone numbers we can call?" He personally couldn't fathom why anyone would want ten different ways to get ahold of them, but it could be worse, he reasoned. He could still be working for Alexi.

"Positive. That asshole is _never_ going to work in this town again, and especially NBC if I have anything to say – who're you?" Chris asked again.

Roger looked up from his cigarette, still smoldering in his hand. "Who, me?"

"Yeah, you."

"This is my roommate, Roger Davis, he's… um, annoying," Mark said bluntly, and Roger gave a small glare. "We live pretty nearby, so he's just popped over to… you know, say hi or whatever."

Chris was staring at Roger very peculiarly. Roger was about to tell him to take a picture, it'd last longer _and_ he'd sign it, when he asked, "Have you ever been on TV before?"

"… No," Roger said slowly, glancing at Mark, wondering if his boss was daft or just flirting with him.

Mark could already see where this was going. "Plays a mean guitar," he offered.

"Would you _like_ to be on TV?" Chris asked, seemingly ignoring Mark for the moment.

"Not really," Roger replied, and laughed, taking a drag on his cigarette. When no one else laughed, he stopped and said, "Oh come _on,_ I can't act."

"Oh please, Mr. No, I Didn't Eat The Last of The Cap'n Cruch, It Must Have Been Collins," Mark rolled his eyes.

"See? You weren't fooled," Roger said.

"It wouldn't matter, this is a very minor role, three or five minutes of the scene top. You look like you'd be a natural, anyway," Chris continued.

"No. Sorry, but no," Roger said. "I'm not even… I don't know. Equity, or SAG, or whatever they call it."

"AFTRA, don't worry about it," Chris told him.

"No."

"Paycheck."

It was tempting. So tempting. So far _beyond_ tempting. "What's the part?"

"Well, male, obviously, caucasian, mid-twenties to mid-thirties, a dealer-"

"Oh, _fuck_ no," Roger interrupted him, throwing his cigarette down on the pavement. "Sorry, boys, I'm out. Have fun."

He'd begun to walk away and was halfway down the block before Mark caught up with him. "Come on, Roger."

"I'm not doing it," he snapped.

Mark thought Roger might have misgivings, but he didn't think it would send him away from the scene faster than a helium balloon from the earth. "Come on, it can't be that bad."

"Tell me, am I the only one who spots the irony of _me_ playing a _drug dealer_?" he asked dryly.

"No. No. The irony is well-spotted, believe me," Mark told him. "But it's just a part. You know people like these exist, so just draw on that."

"You know, none of the dealers I've ever known are particularly _nice._"

"Neither is this one, I've read the script. Seriously, Roger. Work for the afternoon, get a couple hundred bucks for your trouble," Mark told him. "I'm sure NBC as a collective would probably sell you its soul, and Chris is most likely prepared to do you several sexual favors."

"Ew. My door doesn't swing that way."

"I don't think his does either," Mark grinned. "So will you do it?"

Roger bit his lip and looked past Mark at the cameras, and the bit of street that was blocked off for the occasion. He sighed, and then looked back at Mark. "Okay," he said.

"Great. Let's get you into hair and make up," he slapped Roger on the shoulder and began pulling him back.

"Wait, wait wait wait wait. You didn't say anything about make up."

"You wear make up, Roger."

"On _stage._"

"Same principle, you'll look dead on camera if you don't wear any."

"Would you like to die on camera?"

After the scheduled lunch break, the crew and cast reconvened at twelve-thirty for the afternoon shoot. They were outrageously behind, but they were sort of hoping that it wouldn't end up being a problem, because now they had an actor who'd never acted a day in his life before.

When Mark next saw Roger, he really, _really_ wished that he had his camera on him. Sometimes he did carry it on set with him to film even during breaks, but at the moment it was in the shop, so to speak. It wasn't really the shop so much as in pieces on the kitchen table. He noticed that he'd been allowed to keep his leather jacket – a security blanket of sorts – but Roger's jeans were replaced with costume stock jeans, huge, wide legged ones that he would probably never wear in a million years. He winced when he saw the rather convincing gash that make up had given him on his forehead – Roger had a scar in that exact place from a similar injury. He walked right up to Mark and gave him a smirk and said, "So, do I look like a tough guy?"

"I'd cross the street if I saw you coming," Mark laughed, unable to hold back a grin. "I wish I had my camera, you look…"

"Like I should be picked up for dealing?"

"Different," he finished, and then his brow furrowed. "You _did_ read the script, right?"

"Oh relax, I did," he said. "Can't guarantee complete memorization, but…"

"As long as you check your mouth before you speak it should be okay," Mark said, knowing how Roger could put a sailor to shame some days.

"Right," he took a deep breath. "I don't know what I'm doing."

"You don't know what you're doing."

"No, I don't know what I'm doing. But who the hell does?"

Mark rolled his eyes. "Go make your debut as a working actor, you schmuck."

Two months later, they prepared to screen the episode on the thirteen inch TV screen at the loft. It would get CBS, NBC, Fox, ABC, and the public access channels and a Spanish channel if someone obliged to stand behind the TV and hold the bunny ears at just the right angles. Luckily, there was no need for that tonight. Mark usually watched new episodes when they aired, an artist had to examine his own work to look for room for improvement, after all. Usually it was just him, occasionally others would join him. Tonight Roger was there, casually lounging in the chair with his guitar, playing softly and pretending like he wasn't going to see himself on network television in the next hour. Collins was trying to make the microwave work by sheer will power, and slowly but sure the sounds of a third bag of microwave popcorn filled the loft. "Third time's a charm?" Mark asked him amusingly, winding the camera.

"You do not rush the master when he's crafting a masterpiece," Collins told them.

"Two bags of burned popcorn do not a masterpiece make," Roger replied dryly.

Mark began filming as the only response Collins could find was, "Shut up, pretty boy."

"Jealous?" Roger smirked, not letting up on the guitar at all.

"Oh right," he laughed, removing the bag from the microwave before it could burn like the last two had. "I am _so_ jealous of you, Roger. I am so jealous that girls thirteen to twenty-one who are fans of the show are going to be posting on message boards across the internet and their weblogs about the stud muffin they saw on Law and Order tonight. I'm jealous," he punctuated his sentence by ripping the bag open and emptied it into a large cooking pot.

"Yeah. I knew you would be," Roger said smugly.

Mark lifted the camera and began narrating in his narrator's voice. "Our roommate Roger is about to make his network television debut out on the wonderful show Law and Order, if I do say so myself-"

"You're biased, they sign your paycheck," Roger interrupted.

"They signed your paycheck too, man," Collins told him. "Speaking of, did it come yet?"

Roger merely smirked, reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out a paycheck. "Signed, sealed, and delivered to one, Roger Martin Davis, for the amount of – can I have a drumroll please?" Collins obliged, putting the stoli on the table before drumming his fingers rapidly. "Four hundred and eighty-three dollars… and thirty-seven cents."

"So, what do you plan to do with that thirty-seven cents?" Collins asked.

Roger pretended to give the question serious consideration before saying, "Gum. Lots of chewing gum."

The laughter subsided in time for the show's opening monologue to begin. "Man, I _really_ don't like this show," Collins muttered under his breath before taking a handful of popcorn for himself.

It was about fifteen minutes or so before Roger's part was to come up. The _doink doink_ sound was made, the locale flashed on the screen as they faded up on the detectives, two men who walked down the street. _"This street's it?" the man asked. _

"One and the same," the other answered, looking at the slip of paper. "On twelfth, between Avenue B and Avenue C." They looked around, and there Roger was, sitting on the stoop of a building as cool as you please, smoking a cigarette. "Joshua Janecek?"

"Who's asking?" were his first words, looking up at the detectives with measured suspicion.

That much wasn't much of an act, Mark had seen Roger give people that look before, including himself. He looked over at his friend, gauging his reaction. He had, for once, lost all interest in his guitar ad was watching the television with an intense concentration usually reserved for early hours of the morning when songwriting.

_"Sixteenth precinct," the first man said, and they both flashed their badges. _

"Look, you're not going to find anything on me and if you want to search the apartment—" Roger started, jumping to his feet and beginning to climb the steps.

"We're not interested in that right now," the second man interrupted, exchanging a look with the first, who looked like he'd like to be interested in that.

"… Well then, what do you want?" he asked, sliding his hands in the jacket pockets. Another gesture that Mark recognized as completely Roger, but pretty in character.

_"Do you know anything about Michelle Cartwright?" _

"A little bit, seen her around and all." His eyes slowly shifted between the detectives. "Why?"

"She's dead," the first, definitely the more aggressive of the two, said.

Collins and Mark burst out laughing when they saw Roger give his best "Shocked!" face, and Roger stuck his tongue out at them, rather maturely. "I told you I couldn't act," he said.

"Nah, man, you're good," Collins laughed, pretty intrigued with the show for someone who supposedly hated it.

_"…I notice that you're sporting quite the fresh cut on your forehead, how'd you get that?" the first said. _

"So I got into a bar fight, it's not like that's unique. What's all this about?" he asked, touching the 'cut' on his forehead.

"Pretty deep cut for a bar fight, too bad I didn't bring my sewing kit," the second remarked dryly.

"It doesn't need stitches," he snapped. "You want to tell me what this is about or stop harrassing me?"

"Ooh, watch out, angry white boy!" Collin laughed.

"I'm totally handsome, shush," Roger preened.

Mark shook his head, "Shh, best part coming up."

_"… you might be connected. We'd like you to come down and see the station with us, we'll see if the blood from that cut matches the blood on the broken champagne bottle in Michelle's hand," the second man had continued. _

"Oh you can't be serious," he said exasperatedly. "I'm not going. This is bullshit."

"We can do this easily and you can come with us and cooperate now, or we can get a search warrant and bring you down on a drugs charge, I'd just bet you that we could."

"This is the good part, I promise," Mark said gleefully.

_On the screen, Roger gave the two detectives a glower as one mockingly bowed and motioned the way to the squad car that was parked nearer to the corner._

"AHAHAHA," Collins was laughing so hard, tears of mirth were rolling down his cheeks. "That look, that – that is _so you_-" He broke off again as he burst into a fresh peal of laughter.

"See, you didn't even have to _apply_ yourself. You just were," Mark sniggered.

"Oh yeah, a self-righteous druggie asshole. Never heard of that type, before," Roger said, still secretly please with himself for what he thought was a job _very_ well done.

At that moment the phone rang. Laziness kicked in and they let the machine get it, the, "_SPEAK!_" ringing through the loft and perhaps one of the last voices they expected to hear came through loud and clear. "MARK, ROGER, ONE OR BOTH OF YOU, I KNOW YOU'RE THERE, PICK UP THE GODDAMN PHONE!"

"_Benny?_" Mark said, jumping up and picking up the phone. "Hey Benny. … Yeah, he was – Benny says nice work, Roger."

"Tell him he can address fan mail to the studio," Roger said in a mock snooty tone.

Mark rolled his eyes. "He says he heard that. … How'd you end up seeing it? Oh, _oh,_ I see. Alison's a fan of the show, she says good work too, Roger."

"Ditto to Muffy about the fan mail," he said, picking his guitar up again.

"_Alison,_ Roger, really," Mark admonished and talked into the phone again. "Yeah, Collins is here, too. Yeah, I know, the look? That was all him, I died laughing. … Sure." He put the phone down. "What to talk to Benny, Roger?"

Roger very nearly answered no, but then he was suddenly struck. "Gimme the phone," he said. Mark handed it over, and Roger did his very best to not sound smug when he spoke to Benny. "Hi," he said.

"Hey, Roger. I know Mark told you, but good work from both of us," Benny said, and he could hear Alison in the background.

"Thanks," he said. "Hey, guess what?"

"What?"

Roger couldn't help but sound a lot smug when he said, "Guess who gets to sign the next rent check?"


End file.
